Past gloaming, with its auburn vault,
a gloom of august murmurs bump
against torn lips. "What's this?"

you ask, suspicious, as occasion twists
our plans from hands to holding. Tight,
your hips brush scars I count to mark

our nights: strings that rip and tug
a common cusp of stars in sync--a land
of coward souls. Constant, baffling

days, stark with scant account, you
vow to play with dust and dawn
among our twilight god--our thanks

for artistry. I pray without your words--
with gravity, bowing to my faith
and asking you, again, to stay.